


i take from you everything you will allow

by chameleonchanging



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types
Genre: Ficlet Collection, M/M, Tumblr Prompt
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-23
Updated: 2018-08-19
Packaged: 2019-03-23 01:38:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 6,319
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13776939
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chameleonchanging/pseuds/chameleonchanging
Summary: Wolffe and Plo and three long years in the Clone Wars, navigating a relationship that no one - including them - understands.





	1. [ answer ]

They’re in the war room on the _Negotiator_ hashing out the plans for an assault, and it’s late. Kenobi is leaning over the holotable, examining the terrain, and Plo is standing beside him, his hands clasped behind his back, suggesting troop movements, and Wolffe and Cody are waiting them out because eventually one of them will show a sign of tiredness and then their Commanders can hustle them out to rest like normal people instead of letting them continue the charade that being Jedi meant never having to rest.

Wolffe glances at Cody, who rolls his eyes and surreptitiously makes signs _for when’s the last time yours slept?_ He signs back _39 hours and change_ and shifts on his feet. This naval uniform is the devil, and he doesn’t know why he can’t just wear armor like the rest of his non-officer brothers on ship. Nat-borns and their bizarre sensibilities. Cody signs _going on 43_ and Wolffe makes a face.

Plo looks up just then and pauses. “Perhaps we might reconvene at first shift,” he suggests when both Commanders come to attention as though they haven’t been doing the clone equivalent of passing notes about the teacher in class and simultaneously look aggrieved by the hour whilst toeing the line between their expressions and outright insubordination. “Master Kenobi?”

“Of course,” says Kenobi. He straightens up. His spine cracks as he does.

Wolffe steps away from the wall to Plo’s side. “Time to go,” he says, laying a hand on Plo’s arm and guiding him to the door. Cody raises an eyebrow but says nothing; this is something they know about one another and about their Jedi, though the shape of love differs at first glance. Kenobi shrugs and follows with Cody; if Plo has nothing to say about this development, he won’t either.

They take the back route to the officers’ quarters, through hallways that are rarely used. At this hour they are empty but for the odd cleaning droid. The Jedi speak quietly of this and that, trivial things that could be researched with a few moments on the holonet, updates on developments in their Order, who needs to be spoken to or checked in on, and before they know it they’re back to work again.

They are also approaching their rooms. Kenobi’s are first approaching from this end of the hall, and he begs off with only a tiny scowl from Cody to encourage him to be on his way. They continue and pause again outside Cody's door.

It is in Cody's training to acknowledge the ranking officer present, especially one who is technically above his own General, with whom he has his own adaptations. “Have a good night, sir,” he says. “Shall I send someone to you before first shift?”

“He’ll be fine,” Wolffe answers, unhurriedly, as though he had been the one addressed. It still throws Cody off-guard, to see a trooper speaking over his officer. But then, they are off-duty and have no appearances to keep up. Still, he glances at Plo, who merely shrugs.

“As he says,” says Plo. “Have a pleasant rest, Commander.” And then as quickly as Wolffe can manage without being outright disrespectful, he is herded away. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because there's no way Plo's the one in charge in this relationship. He's terrified he's gonna overstep his authority.


	2. [ swat ]

There is Council business during the week the 104th is to be at Coruscant for resupply, and that sees Plo winding his way through the maze that is the Temple with Wolffe at his side, who is mildly and increasingly concerned he will take a wrong turn and be lost forever. Plo chuckles at the stray thought - clearly Wolffe needs to work on his shielding if he's broadcasting, and he gets the faintest laughing impression of _sorry_ \- and presses the button for a lift.

“One of the benefits of requiring a non-standard atmosphere,” Plo explains on their way up. “The dormitories are generally on the other side of the Temple. This space was formerly part of the medical wing many, many years ago; the airlocks make these rooms quite suitable for my purposes. The blackout windows are merely a bonus.”

Wolffe follows him into the airlock, fits his rebreather and goggles over his mouth, and triggers the cycling sequence. When it's done, the second set of doors slide open and he is treated to the sight of Plo's home away from the _Courageous_. A few plants are scattered around the living space, each with a watering system. There are a few books on a table and a board game of some sort half-finished on the desk. Sparsely decorated, but clearly lived in.

Plo starts going through the stack of datapads for the one he needs for his meeting, and when that yields no results, searches a drawer, emptying the contents one at a time onto the desktop. A few rocks, a stylus, a tiny stuffed nexu -

Wolffe reaches for the toy and wrinkles his brow when Plo swats his hand away without looking. It takes another few seconds for Plo to realize what he's done, and then he freezes in place. Slowly, they turn to look at one another, a flush creeping up Plo's neck and a delighted grin spreading across Wolffe's face.

“Forgive me,” Plo says. “I - reflex.”

Wolffe bumps shoulders with him. “Ahsoka’s?” he asks, hoping he's wrong and about to get an early birthday present.

“Mine,” Plo admits. “Master Tyvokka gave her to me as a crecheling to train me out of digging my claws into . . . everything. I'm told none of the cubes, cones, or balls survived, but I took a liking to Needles here and never let go.”

Wolffe takes a moment to imagine tiny Plo gingerly carrying around his stuffed nexu and nearly chokes on the adorableness. Apparently he came by his adoption habit naturally.

By the time he's recovered, Plo is back to rummaging through his desk. He finds his datapad, puts everything back, and sets Needles on top of the stack before closing the drawer. They're going to be late.

Some months later on Cholganna, Wolffe smacks his forehead with his palm when he sees Plo approaching from patrol with a squirming furious ball of death wrapped up in his cloak. On inspection, it has a broken leg.

“You named it already, didn't you?” he grumbles.

“Princess Needles the Second,” says Plo proudly, letting the baby nexu attempt and fail to gnaw on his finger.

“You're not bringing that on my ship.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cc-3636: plo adopted a cat  
> cc-3636: attachment: the cat  
> cc-2224: THAT IS NOT A CAT WOLFFE  
> cc-2224: ONE OF THOSE TRIED TO EAT ME ON GEONOSIS  
> cc-3636: WELL YOU TRY AND TELL PLO HIS PRECIOUS PRINCESS NEEDLES ISNT COMING ON BOARD  
> cc-3636: FUCKING CALL GENERAL KENOBI FOR ME ALREADY


	3. [ dry ]

It is raining. The Pack is on reconnaissance, looking for the trail of a squad gone missing, and though it will be harder to trace after the storm has passed, there is too much risk in continuing to walk in circles on a mountain with sliding rocks in the middle of a storm.

There is a cave Sinker has found ahead while scouting, and they all dash for it, hoping for a little cover while they wait out the weather. By the time Plo is inside, it feels as though an ocean is falling from the skies, and he in his robes is at a disadvantage for soaking up water, which skims off armor and soaks into the troopers’ blacks only at the gaps.

He stands near the entrance while he wrings out his outer robe. Close by, Boost is feeding a small fire, and Sinker and Wolffe are unpacking some supplies for a temporary camp. Water drips down his face onto his filter, clogging up the vents. He shakes his head.

When he turns, Wolffe is standing behind him with a small clean rag. He is not in his helmet, and so the glint in his eye is easy for Plo to see, the glee that they are as alone as they ever can be in an army and Plo is in his power. Boost and Sinker, observant as ever, are studiously minding their tasks for the sake of plausible deniability.

“Let me-” Wolffe says, bringing the cloth up to Plo's filter, drying the vents first and then working his way out, across the metal and his face in brisk, efficient strokes, ending with a brief caress along Plo's neck disguised as a chase after an escaping drop of water.

The light catches in just the right way for Wolffe to see the silver in Plo's eyes behind his goggles, and his breath catches in his chest. On impulse, he closes the distance between them and he presses their foreheads together, a kiss in their fashion. His voice, when he speaks again, is rough like Plo imagines it might be if they could ever kiss human-fashion.

“'s warmer by the fire, sir,” he says, tilting his head at where Boost is working on heating ration packs while they wait for the storm to end, and Plo goes.


	4. [ direct ]

No one has seen Plo since the end of the battle. He was with them through the ambush, through recovering the survivors, through the pyres and _partaylir_ , and then when Skywalker had been updated and camp had quieted down, he’d vanished. Wolffe has been looking for him for nearly two hours with no luck, and if he continues having no luck, he’s going to round up a search party.

He passes the command center for the third time in 20 minutes. Commander Tano is standing outside the tent, speaking with Rex, and she catches his eye, excusing herself from her conversation and jogging over to him.

“Commander Tano,” he says gruffly, dipping his head. She is Plo's kid, and therefore falls within Wolffe's concern, same as Generals Lissarkh and Swan. Perhaps ranked a little higher, since they see one another so often and he is beginning to be fond of her on her own merits.

“Commander Wolffe,” she answers. “I saw you come by a few times. Can I help you with something?”

“Just looking for the General. My General,” he says, since there are two of them in camp now. “Know where he might have gone, Commander?”

Commander Tano shrugs and waves vaguely towards the north end of camp. “Master Plo said he wanted to find somewhere quiet to meditate. I know it was a rough day. I'm sorry for your losses, Commander,” she says quietly. “I wish we could have saved more.”

“ _Nu kyr’adyc, shi taab’echaaj’la_ ,” says Wolffe, who knows Rex has been teaching her their language. “Thank you, sir.”

He leaves her, heading out of camp. Somewhere quiet usually means unsupervised, where Plo is concerned. North of camp is more open field, but it faces away from the battle lines. Fifteen minutes out, the dark is all-encompassing, and the only light aside from the stars is the small flashlight Wolffe is using to navigate.

There is a lone figure standing ahead, head tilted upwards with a slightly different shape, and sure enough the mask and goggles are dangling from his hand instead of attached to his face. Wolffe snaps off the flashlight and breaks into a run, relying on his cybernetic eye to see.

“What do you think you're doing?” he hisses, pulling Plo around to face him. “Put it back!”

Plo wordlessly presses the filter back to his face and triggers the purging cycle. When it's done, he lets out a quiet breath. “Wolffe,” he says. “I just wanted . . .”

He fiddles with his goggles, avoiding Wolffe’s gaze. He doesn't seem inclined to finish his thought, but Wolffe can't let it go.

“Wanted what?” he asks, turning them both around and starting the walk back to camp.

“I don't know,” says Plo. He lifts a hand to his mask again, and Wolffe shoots him a dirty look.

“Don't even think about it,” he warns. “That mask better stay on until you're in your quarters on the _Courageous_.”

“I should have been better,” says Plo. “I should have seen - to lose so many!” His breath shakes behind the filter. “Major Vell marched on today. He asked if he was ever going to find out what I looked like without my filter. I promised to take him on security detail next time we stopped at Dorin.

“You believe those gone have marched away. Kel Dor believe in joining the winds. Jedi believe all become one with the Force - if he is out there, I thought I might still keep my promise. You were right, Wolffe, those many months ago. The Jedi are unprepared to lead a war. We have no business pretending to be generals and commanders.”

Wolffe curses Kel Dor telepathy under his breath. That was not a sentiment he had ever wanted to make known to Plo, even at the start of their acquaintance. Now it hangs in the air between them, and he considers it once more from a new perspective. What would a Jedi peacekeeper know about surviving the losses of war? The clones had ten years of training and culls to find a way to come to terms with it. Plo had woken up one morning and been sent to a killing ground. Wolffe had been the one to pull him from the sands of Geonosis.

In all the time since, he's never seen Plo be anything less than a pillar for the troopers he'd been given charge of.

He stops, his boots scuffing the dirt, and Plo stops too. He curls his fingers around the back of Plo's skull, turns his head so they're facing each other. Still Plo averts his eyes. “Look at me,” Wolffe orders, and slowly Plo does, his silver irises less prominent than Wolffe has ever seen them. He doesn't know what he's looking for. A sign that his Jedi is getting ready to crack, perhaps. A sign his lover is hiding more than insecurities.

“You couldn't know they were waiting for us,” says Wolffe, willing Plo to believe him. “I couldn't know either, because there were no signs in any of the recon. If there were, neither of us would have tried to land here. You weren't meant for this, but you're not doing a bad job, Plo.”

“Knowing and knowing are different things,” says Plo. “Forgive me, Wolffe. I should not burden you this way.” He presses their foreheads together briefly.

“Nothing to forgive when you're doing what you ought,” says Wolffe. “Put your eyewear back on before someone comes looking and it gets bright.”

They continue back to camp in silence. When they arrive, Commander Tano is still awake. Wolffe nudges Plo in her direction, watches her throw her arms around him, sees him soften the way he does for his children, and hopes everything will be okay. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Partaylir - lit. to remember, in this case referring to the Mando tradition of reciting the names of those who have passed
> 
> Nu kyr'adyc, shi taab'echaaj'la - not gone, just marching far away


	5. [ pilot ]

When they crash-land on this rock, it is night and the sands are still hot enough to burn. Plo reaches out with the Force to steady their descent and five larties skid to a stop. Then when everyone finishes being airsick and sounding off, he swears quietly, takes two shaky steps across the transport, and falls on his face.

Though Wolffe is loathe to admit it, it is probably for the best. As much as he hates seeing Plo incapacitated by neglect of his own limits, they run into greater problems when first light breaks. Plo makes a wounded sound waking up that draws Sinker to his side. Sinker makes way for their medic, who pronounces Plo Force exhausted and standard Jedi stupid but otherwise fine. Wolffe tries not to scowl at them and mostly succeeds. Plo is not stupid, except for when he is. By way of having nowhere to escape to, Plo is forced to sit through what passes for a full checkup for a Kel Dor being treated by a medic who trained to work on Humans, and by the time they are done, it is 0600 and brighter than high noon.

Wolffe looks at the medic, who looks at Plo, who is wincing and squinting behind his goggles, and all three of them contemplate the varied numbers of ways they have learned to say  _ fuck _ since joining the army.

“We cannot remain here,” says Plo, shuffling into a shaded corner to spare his eyes. The troopers stand around him, blocking as much of the light as they can whilst pretending not to pay attention to their officers’ conversation.

“You can’t leave, sir,” says the medic, whose name is Catch. “You’ll blind yourself.”

“We are in the open and supplied only for a short time,” says Plo. “Your armor is not ideal for this climate, but it will protect you sufficiently for the distance to the outpost.”

“What about you?” Wolffe asks. 

“I will do as I must,” says Plo. Wolffe sees in the set of his shoulders he will not compromise on this point. 

“Do we have a spare helmet?” he asks, though the odds are slim and he doubts a trooper bucket would fit around Plo’s mask anyway. He briefly considers giving his own to Plo anyway, before he sees the  _ your next idea is neither amusing nor intelligent _ frown. He returns it with a  _ nobody asked you, sir _ scowl. 

Catch looks between the two of them and decides the matter is far above his pay grade. 

“You are not going out there,” says Wolffe, crossing his arms.

“I wasn't aware my actions were within your jurisdiction to decide,” Plo says mildly. 

“Now you are,” says Wolffe, sticking out his chin. He knows he is toeing the line to insubordination. He is also mostly sure he is going to get away with it. They have been growing closer in recent weeks, and he has noticed Plo Koon will overlook anything less than outright malice when it comes to himself, though the bar for reaction is set much lower for everyone else.

To his eyes, the situation is thus: they are on an inhospitable planet. Movement away from their landing site will give them a small head start should their attackers come looking, though not enough to make a difference if they come in aircraft, and at the cost - perhaps permanently - of their General’s vision. An attack is not out of the question, but the lack of attention in the night suggests they are assumed dead. 

Plo, he thinks, is more concerned about the possibility of an airstrike and their low supplies than he is about his own well-being. But he is a Jedi, and not terribly well trained in warfare, though he is learning admirably quickly. 

“Commander,” Plo says.

“General,” Wolffe returns. He isn't sure what happens to disabled Jedi, but the Republic seems to care for their lives only slightly more than they care for the clones’, so he isn't willing to risk the possibility of getting his general decommissioned. Would that Plo would develop a sense of self-preservation.

Their contest of wills lasts a few moments, and then Plo sighs and looks away. “I have a bad feeling about staying here, Commander. I wish to be away from this place as quickly as possible. What may I do - that will harm no other, yourself included - to put your concerns at ease?”

Wolffe accepts the olive branch and considers. “If we come up with something that Catch says will keep you from permanent damage, I'll be satisfied.”

“Is that all? I make no promises,” Catch grumbles, already rummaging through his bag. He withdraws a pair of scissors and a large roll of gauze. “Keep your goggles on, sir. You're going to look ridiculous, but this will probably work. Somebody get me a spare set of blacks.”

Plo does indeed look ridiculous with his makeshift blindfold, layers of gauze interlaced with squares cut from underarmor. The mass balances precariously on Plo’s head, carefully arranged around his mask, giving him the approximate outline of some nightmare creature Wolffe had seen once in a holovid passed around by his brothers. Still, when Catch raises his hand and asks how many fingers he’s holding up and Wolffe smacks him in the shoulder for impudence, Plo can’t see a thing.

“Though context suggests one,” he says dryly. A round of sniggers goes around.

“Good to see your logical reasoning isn’t completely shot, sir,” says Catch.

“Pack supplies and whatever we can carry to the outpost,” Wolffe orders. “Sir, how do you want to do this?”

“I trust you, Commander,” says Plo. “I place myself in your capable hands.”

His words please something in Wolffe and fill him with a warmth not attributable to the desert. When they leave, Wolffe in the lead with Plo’s hand on his shoulder, following behind, the feeling has not faded.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Probably an hour after they leave, there’s a bunch of loud screeching and explosions at the landing site, because there’s always a big fish somewhere under the sands. This is how Wolffe learns about Jedi Bad Feelings. He was right about being assumed dead, though.
> 
> Also in case it’s not apparent, these are not in chronological order.


	6. [ teach ]

Every muscle in Wolffe’s body is aching. He had not thought it would be possible; he is engineered to be the pinnacle of Human endurance, trained by the Cuy’val Dar, pushed past every limit he thought he had and come out the other side - but he stands in the officer’s gym, training saber in hand, holding the sixth pose of the form and attempting the transition to the seventh. He shifts his weight, extends the saber, begins the turn - and catches sight of himself in the mirror, still moving stiffly after hours of practice. 

The force he has. The strikes, each slash, all placed perfectly that if he were fighting an opponent, he would cut them to pieces. It is the quiet moments he has trouble with. He has seen this form performed. When Plo does it, he looks the way a morning breeze feels, like a breath between storms. Plo makes this transition look like peace, and Wolffe - Wolffe doesn’t know what peace feels like. 

He returns to the opening stance, launches into the first leap, swings and swings again, sinks into a lunge, saber spinning - and then the breath that he turns into a gasp, jerking to a halt. He thumbs the ignition and growls.

“Do it again,” says Plo from the doorway, and Wolffe looks up to meet his gaze. He should not be surprised Plo has come to find him; these days, a tiny portion of Plo’s awareness lives in the back of Wolffe’s mind. His frustration was sure to draw attention. “Slowly,” Plo prompts, and with a sigh, Wolffe does. 

The leap becomes a step, the saber humming as it circles once, twice, and then he missteps again.

“Again,” says Plo.

“Plo -” 

“Again,” he insists, and this time he steps forward at the sixth pose, pressing himself to Wolffe’s back, arm to arm, leg to leg, deactivating the saber and clipping it to Wolffe’s belt. For a time, they hold position and just breathe. Though Wolffe aches, he leaves himself where Plo has guided him, focused on the body he has come to know as well as his own.

“This is the moment of decision,” says Plo, lacing their saber hands together. “The space in time between the idea and the action. Without deliberation, the next step cannot be.” 

He tucks his chin over Wolffe’s shoulder, holding himself close. Still, there is a looseness to him, his body free of tension as he molds himself to his Commander. 

“This is a form with two endings,” says Plo. “Either do or do not. Continue, or continue not. There is no shame in either path. But it is a decision that is not forced by momentum or by fatigue - do you see?”

They hold for a few moments more, and Wolffe nods. 

“So?” Plo hums. “Which path do you choose today?”

“Your path,” Wolffe answers gruffly. He can have no other answer; he is as sure of this as he is his own name. This is the peace he has been seeking. “I'll go where you do.”

Plo smiles. Wolffe feels it more than sees, the subtle shifting of muscles and metal, and then they are in motion again, slow but sure. They shift, extend, and flow into the turn like water. Now they stand in the seventh pose, ready for another series of strikes. Wolffe marvels at the simplicity. 

Plo withdraws. “Well done,” he says, returning to his usual stance, hands folded together in front of him. In his voice he is pleased, and Wolffe has a flash of insight. This is what Plo was meant for. In another life, without war, without the Council, he would have been a teacher. In this one, he finds his peace in these small moments. 

Perhaps Wolffe will do the same.


	7. [ refill ]

Cody pulls Wolffe aside after dinner and corrals him into a storage room in the kitchens, shoving the door closed behind him and crossing his arms at Wolffe's defensive scowl.

“Don't give me that look,” Cody says. “Really? Of all the people you could be interested in?” 

“Like you have a leg to stand on,” says Wolffe. “You're doing the _exact same thing_ with your General!”  

“Never seen you be friendly or helpful to anyone ever, vod,” says Cody. “And I notice you're not denying it.”

“He _called lightning_ and _blew up a hundred clankers in a second._ And then he turned around and carried half of the squad back to camp!” Wolffe moans and runs his hands through his hair.

“So what,” says Cody, mostly teasing, “you're scared of him?”

“No!” Wolffe nearly howls. “I want to -” And promptly claps a hand over his own mouth before he can give Cody any more ammunition. Too late, as Cody is already grinning widely.

“And General Koon doesn't know?” he asks.

“My General,” says Wolffe in the tone of the long-suffering, “is either the densest sentient alive or the biggest stickler for the rules in the galaxy.”

“Neither of which bodes well for your odds of getting him into bed,” Cody says helpfully. He plants his palms on Wolffe's chest to stop himself getting throttled. Sometimes being physically identical comes in handy.

Wolffe's desire to commit fratricide eventually fades, and he leans on Cody, forehead to shoulder. “I’ve been trying to get him to notice for weeks! He doesn't respond to anything. He just lets me do whatever I want. Boost and Sinker are in fuckin’ fits laughing over it.”

It was more or less common knowledge in their batch of officers that Wolffe really liked getting his way. Poor Wolffe.

“He's a telepath! And a Jedi! How can he be this bad at reading people?! And it’s not like a coercion charge would ever stick when the entire GAR can see very plainly I’m the one chasing him!”

Cody snorts. “I won’t deny you’re getting a little ridiculous. Seriously, filling his glass?”

“Shut up,” Wolffe grumbles. Plo wanted water, and Wolffe wanted to provide. Everyone won, including Cody, who mostly wanted a laugh at Wolffe's expense. “How did you get yours to say yes?”

“Wolffe.”

“I _know_.” His voice comes out muffled. “I can’t make him do anything he doesn’t want. Wouldn’t even if I could. But -”

He thinks about the way Plo’s hand feels on his shoulder, the feverish warmth that overtakes his heart when he’s captured Plo’s attention, the easy give when he pushes. He remembers the bile rising in his throat when he woke and realized Catch was going to choose to save who he could, remembers wanting to trade anything and everything to keep Plo tethered on this side of his Force. The feeling never faded.

Something in his face must shift; Cody nudges the back of his hand, brushing their knuckles together.

“I think he’s the one, Cody,” he says, bleakly, hopelessly, because what hope could there be that he could have someone like Plo? Plo who was always so conscientious off the field, who bent to his troopers’ will away from battle, who let Wolffe in particular encroach on his independence even as he fretted over their ability to do as they pleased. If Wolffe had been made for Plo - and he was certain he had been - then it seemed Plo had been made for Wolffe. He just didn't seem to know, or possibly to care, and with every allowance that he made, Wolffe lost a little more of his heart.

“You’re going to be okay, Wolffe,” says Cody. “You need me to step in, get a transfer for you, you tell me.”

“I won't leave him,” says Wolffe. “Having him near is better than not having him at all.” But he sounds unsure even to himself, and Cody had not been promoted to Marshal Commander for cluelessness, however often he turned a blind eye. Wolffe's misery is practically palpable. _I need him, I love him,_ he says with every shuddering breath. _Anything, to make him mine._

And Cody, who already has what he wants, can only hold him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cody would love to help, but - what, he asks Obi-Wan? 
> 
> “Plo,” says Obi-Wan, “an . . . invested-but-not-involved third party requested I ask you something.”
> 
> Plo approximates raised eyebrows. “Go ahead,” he says, mildly curious as to what kind of question required them both to be in a warded conference room swept twice for bugs.
> 
> “Are you aware your Commander is very, very interested in you?”
> 
> . . . yeah, no.


	8. [ possessive ]

Plo is not sure Wolffe understands what has been happening these last few weeks. 

It begins with water. The clone officers of the 104th prefer to sit with their brothers at mealtimes, and Plo will not hold himself separate from the men he has pledged to stand with, so all of them pack in at a table in a corner to give their non-officer brothers some space to breathe and eat whatever ship’s mess has decided is on the menu. Whenever dinner is not actively dangerous for him to eat, Plo sits facing the wall, his mask in his lap, holding his breath between bites of it-might-be-chicken. Wolffe, ever a guardian, sits beside him, glaring at anyone who might be interested in gawking at Plo's face.

A bite of mystery meat disagrees with Plo on the way down, and he makes a face. Without missing a beat in his conversation, Wolffe reaches over and sets his cup on Plo's tray, the way he has done for other brothers, with an implied order to drink. Plo stares at it until Wolffe snags Plo's cup, refills it, and then keeps it for himself. 

It becomes a regular occurrence. 

Wolffe stands closer and pushes more. He has always been demanding and he returns compliance with possession - but now Plo is the one he makes demands of. Always little things, inconsequential things, except that Wolffe wants them done. Far be it for Plo to tell him what to do or not, when so much of Wolffe's life is in his control already. If he is honest, because it is Wolffe, Plo does not mind - is pleased, even - to yield. 

They are making camp and Wolffe hands him a plate of food, and Plo accepts it quietly, secure in the knowledge it is at least edible for Kel Dor. He sits on the rock where Wolffe indicates, eats quietly, offers a few words of conversation where appropriate between breaths through his filter. Wolffe’s newest encroachment is a hand on Plo’s knee, just resting there, as though Plo too belongs to him. He has done this before with his squadmates, keeping them physically in range on instinct, and so Plo gives it no particular thought aside from the awareness that Wolffe thinks of him in the same way as his brothers.

But then Wolffe looks down and notices, and the undercurrent of  _ mine _ that characterizes his mental tone becomes  _ want _ and  _ why _ and  _ I will never have _ with an overlay of panic when he sees Plo’s attention. He goes to jerk his hand away, an apology on his lips. It pains Plo to see him so distressed. 

He places a hand over Wolffe’s, with as little fanfare as he can manage for such a momentous thing. He is making a commitment, he knows. It will hurt Wolffe more to have and then lose than to be rebuffed immediately. He is telling Wolffe  _ if you want _ , and Wolffe wants very badly. 

There are a thousand ways this could end poorly for both of them. Set the matter of their relative positions aside - they are still fighting a war with no end in sight, and each of them has nearly died more than once already. Plo is responsible for two Armies; however much he likes to embed himself in the 104th, there is always the possibility situations will evolve and require his presence where Wolffe cannot follow. Or perhaps Wolffe will not wish to follow - love may be fickle, after all. But Plo thinks it is too late for both of them. They are thoroughly attached. Now the trick will be in learning to let one another go.

Under his hand, Wolffe tenses and then relaxes and turns palm-up, fingers curling around Plo’s claw, Plo’s claw over his pulse. It is enough.


	9. [ lit ]

“It’s a terrible habit,” says Plo. 

He steps outside the club, ears ringing and voice failing. His filter amplifies his voice only to a point; all night, he’s been pushing its limits. Therein lies the problem with losing a bet with his officers and being required to attend shore leave as payment. Most places in the galaxy are designed with humans in mind.

But it appears he is not the only one who has had his fill of excitement for the night. Wolffe leans on the wall in his civilian clothes, a cigarette between his lips, fishing through his pockets for a light that he seems to have forgotten on the ship. His lips curl into a sharp smile. 

“I know,” he says, the cigarette bobbing as he mumbles around it. “But I’m not living long enough for it to matter anyway, so -” He shrugs. “You got a light, sir?” he asks before remembering that Kel Dor didn’t really smoke. Fires and oxygen and all that. 

Plo steps in closer. Wolffe shifts like he thinks he is going to steal away his smoke, debating whether keeping it is worth potentially irritating his CO by ducking away - but Plo lets out a long, slow breath, holds his claws at the tip of the cigarette, and clicks them against each other once. A tiny yellow spark jumps from the point of contact, and in a few seconds the cigarette is smoldering. 

Wolffe raises his eyebrows. “Didn’t think Jedi used lightning.”

“Most don’t,” says Plo. “It’s merely a parlour trick I picked up some years ago.” He steps just far enough away that the smoke doesn’t flood his senses. Wolffe’s eyes, glittering in the dark, track him. “Good evening, Commander. I’ll make my way to the  _ Triumphant _ myself.”

Wolffe studies him for a moment longer. “As you like, sir,” he says.

Plo feels his gaze on his back until he turns the corner.


	10. [ order ]

They’re finishing up a briefing that has overrun its time when Wolffe receives his third comm in five minutes. His lips curl. Doubtless there is some sort of problem awaiting him. Historically, it’s always been someone else’s problem. He hates other people’s problems. But for three comms in quick succession, it must be urgent, and if he doesn’t answer soon, he knows the next guy up the ladder is going to get messages too. Plo has enough on his plate already, if this meeting is any indication of the Admiralty’s attitude.

He steps out of range of the holo capture to read his message. Something something misplaced crates, mumble mumble malfunctioning droid, please advise re: remnants of deck 9. It’s going to take at least an hour just to get the full story. He can feel a headache coming on already.

Plo turns his head ever so slightly in Wolffe’s direction to improve his peripheral vision and casually tucks his hands behind his back. _Trouble?_ he shapes, still a little clumsy as he learns what is essentially the GAR’s third natural language. It looks somewhat strange when he does it. In his defense, he has to accommodate one extra long claw and one fewer finger than the troopers, but it still brings joy to Wolffe’s day when a little willful misinterpretation can turn _all okay_ to _leek in the boat_.

 _Just some fires to put out,_ he signs back. _Don’t worry about it_.

 _How long?_ Plo asks. Wolffe shrugs.

 _Depends on the fire._ His stomach growls, reminding him he hasn’t had a chance to eat. This meeting was supposed to end in time for them to get food, but he doubts he’s going to be done with deck 9 before the mess closes. Plo clearly has the same thought, his head tilting such that if he were human, he’d be glancing pointedly at Wolffe’s belly and then back at his face. The Admirals, still droning on, appear not to notice.

 _I’m fine,_ he signs, and at the twinge of skepticism he feels from Plo, adds, _Really._

_I’ll get food. Orders?_

A short back-and-forth ensues, with Wolffe insisting he doesn’t need to eat and Plo’s eyes attempting to roll backwards into his skull. Wolffe eventually relents and signs _just order me a caf,_ which isn’t enough to satisfy Plo entirely but is just enough of a concession that he will concede the larger point. He does so with a variation of the sign for _yes_ that the Vode evolved to suggest deference to a superior. Wolffe can’t decide if he should read into it. It will have to wait for another time, he settles on. There are repairs to arrange and stories to tease out, and whether or not Plo’s language lessons are lacking in connotation is a matter that can be addressed at a less fire-y occasion.

Sure enough, the disaster of deck 9 takes a ridiculous amount of time to clear up. By the time he is done, shift change has come and gone, and his only options for dinner involve sneaking into the kitchens to cook for himself. Far more effort than he’s willing to expend at this hour, when all he wants is to crawl into bed and not think about the mountain of requisitions paperwork waiting for him in the morning.

He steps into his quarters and stops. His space has been tresspassed upon, though apparently by someone with good intentions. The lights are on, the temperature is set low the way he likes for sleep, and a wrapped plate and mug are sitting under a warmer. The note beside them reads _One does not thrive on caf alone_. Wolffe laughs quietly, spins his fork between his fingers, and settles in to eat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm getting organized! Clone Wars-related things to be at ccinagalaxyfaraway.tumblr.com. Come yell at me!

**Author's Note:**

> Based on devotedecay's non-sexual acts of dominance list.
> 
> Find me at ccinagalaxyfaraway.tumblr.com


End file.
